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Considered one of the most iconic landscapes in all of Ireland, we could resist spending a morning at the Cliffs of Moher. Though the view from the main platform was breathtaking, we’d heard wonderful things about the trail that extended along the southern edge of the cliffs, and we quickly headed away from the crowds towards the quieter trails. Before long the the guard rail gave way to a wooden fence, which gave way to stone slabs cut from a nearby quarry, which eventually gave way to dirt and grass and cliff’s edge. Standing there on the grass a few feet from a sheer 200 meter drop, with wobbly knees and winds whipping through our hair and trying to toss us back onto our bottoms, we gazed out at the green cliffs in either direction, the soaring birds, and the wild ocean crashing below, and it was easy to imagine that we were standing at the edge of the world.

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Things don’t always go according to plan. Sometimes, when you are driving cross country, you have just a little window to try to visit somewhere special. Sometimes schedules posted online are not the same as the actual hours open when you pull up into the drive. Sometimes you would have been perfectly willing to pay an entrance fee, but there was no one there to take it. So sometimes, you make a split second decision to take a stroll through a nearby cow pasture, use an ancient step stile built into a stone wall to hop over, and have just a little look, because it’s so so beautiful and so unlike anything you’ve ever been, and this is your only chance.

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A magical way to spend a morning. When not exploring 5,000 year-old dolmens, stone circles, and cairns, we spent this sunny day making friends with ponies and picnicking on local cheeses, yogurt, and lemonade from Sligo.

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When we decided to travel to Ireland, I made one request. I’d happily spend most of our time hiking around southwestern Ireland to celebrate the Mister’s recent graduation, but could we please make one major detour and visit the Giant’s Causeway? After a showing him a few photos, he was sold on the idea, and we began our trip by heading straight for the Causeway coast in Northern Ireland.

So many of the places I travel to are chosen because I’ve already fallen in love with photographs of them, but, as with so many beautiful places, words and photos fall short of actually representing the experience of them. Clambering over the slick basalt columns, watching as passing storms transform calm water to crashing waves just a few feet away, hiking trails lined with sheep and brightly blooming gorse, no photo or essay could have captured the full vibrancy of the experience, though that doesn’t stop me from trying. Just a reminder to myself of why we try so hard to travel as much as we can.

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When traveling, I find that so many of the best moments are those that are unplanned. Perhaps because the lack of expectation erases any chance of disappointment, leaving only room for discovery and adventure. One morning we were navigating hairpin turns along the coast of Northern Ireland, and just ahead, perched on the edge of a cliff, the ruins of Dunlace Castle came into view. “Let’s go there!” I exclaimed, and swerved across traffic into the pull-off for the castle. The northern coast was stormy that day, and as we slipped amongst the battered stone walls and towers, the wind and rain whipped through our hair and across our faces. The castle cliff seems to rise straight out of the sea, and we peered through openings in the stone walls, both those meant as windows and those created by time or misfortune. Looking out at the cliffs that stretched out on either side of the castle and listening to the crashing waves below, we wondered if anyone ever slept well living here. Were the howling wind and beating rain and wild crashing waves a nightly menace or a soothing lullaby?

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We arrived in Ireland so early in the morning there was hardly any daylight and immediately jumped in a rental car, heading straight out of Dublin towards Northern Ireland. Although it took a while to adjust to driving on the left, being on the highway so soon after arriving left us feeling like we could be anywhere, even driving through the pasture lands of the mid-western US. Knowing that by the time we arrived in Northern Ireland it would still be far too early to check into our little AirBnb in Portrush, we set out to visit the nearby Dark Hedges instead.

Planted in the eighteenth century, the Dark Hedges are an avenue of ancient beech trees originally planted to create a beautiful entrance to a nearby manor. Over the last several hundred years their branches have stretched and twisted together, forming a striking tree tunnel that is a favorite of photographers, and even made an appearance in an episode of Game of Thrones.

For a while we thought we were lost, driving down an number of curving, single-lane country rounds in search of what would be the first of many address-less destinations, but then suddenly we turned a corner and there they were, twisted and towering, and suddenly it hit us hard that our adventures in a new place had begun.

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On a lazy Saturday this spring, a friend and I biked out to the National Arboretum to take in the peak bloom of the park’s amazing azalea collection. We’d never been to visit the azaleas and were expecting a good-sized garden filled with colorful blossoms. Instead we found several acres of shady hillsides, bursting with color in every direction. Unlike the almost suffocating crowds that choke the tidal basin during cherry blossom season, the park was relatively calm and quiet but just as lovely. We spent over an hour wandering through the blossom-lined trails and marveling that we could have lived in DC for so long without visiting this beautiful place.

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On a sunny Saturday in early May, we finally had a chance to attend Passport DC, a month long event in which embassies from around the world open their doors to the public. In just a few hours we were able to visit the embassies of Costa Rica, the Philippines, Oman, Botswana, and Peru, as well as the Islamic Cultural Center of DC. It was such a pleasant afternoon spent hugging alpacas, tasting baklava and tamales, sipping pisco sours, and being treated to a few amazing dance performances.

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I have a secret park. It’s a few blocks off the beaten cherry blossom path, and for one week every spring it explodes into a little pink magnolia haven. Year after year, I wait for that week, and when it comes, I go out of my way every day to walk through, quiet and lush, my little secret.

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My current ambition for the summer is to spend as much time as possible enjoying the warm weather with a glass of rose and a little cheese. I’m just as happy to pick out something simple for us to share, as I am throwing together an assorted cheese platter to enjoy with friends. What are your favorite summer treats?

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When I close my eyes and think of Italy, it’s usually memories of Cinque Terre that come to mind. Cinque Terre with it’s colorful towns clinging to cliff-sides and the blue green Mediterranean crashing on the rocks below.

Pictures of Cinque Terre were what had originally spurred me to ask for a honeymoon in Italy and we quickly agreed to spend the third and splurgiest week of our travels there. We arrived by train, and the property manager led us up through the twisting streets of Manarola (the second of the five small, car-free towns) to the little apartment we’d rented. The doors and windows of the apartment were shuttered tight, and I remember with clarity the look of glee on the manager’s face as he led us into the dark bedroom, and dramatically threw open the doors to the terrace. It must have been his favorite part of the job, seeing the look on people’s faces as they took in that view for the first time and ours were surely no disappointment. The apartment had a large terrace overgrown with grape vines and looked out on the rest of Manarola, the terraced hills, and the sea.

That week in Cinque Terre was like a dream. Visiting all the little towns, we tried the local seafood specialty (a combination of clams, shrimp, fish, squid and langostino) cooked a half dozen different ways—as a cioppino; breaded and fried; sauteed in a wine sauce over pasta; as a sort of paella; grilled with vegetables—each variation better than the next and oh-so-fresh. We’d collect pesto, bread, and local wine while we were out for the day, and bring it back to enjoy at our apartment while spending lazy hours taking in the unreal view from our terrace. Often we’d hike in the hillsides from town to town or walk amongst the gardens growing on the terraced hillsides. We meandered through olive groves and saw lemon trees heavy with fruit. Sometimes we ate gelato and most afternoons we’d make our way over to Monterosso al Mare to rent an umbrella and a couple of beach chairs. Hours were spent napping and reading in the sun, taking turns fetching more gelato, and most wonderfully, swimming in those clear blue-green waters. One lazy afternoon we found a dozen tiny orange kumquats floating in the water, lost from someone’s lunch or fallen off a tree, and we spent hours playing toss with them in the sea, taking turns hurling the little orange fruit into the air, while the other made a spectacular dive to catch it, the warm Mediterranean waters catching us as we fell.

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Sometimes the best travel experiences are the ones that take you by surprise. Pisa was a convenient stopover for us, and, expecting to just pay a cursory visit to the Tower and try to get as much sleep as possible, we hadn’t done much research or bothered to muster up any excitement. Dropping our bags at the hotel, we immediately ventured out for food, espresso, and a glimpse at Pisa’s most famous landmark. Often being more of the food and culture type of tourist than the famous landmark kind of tourist, we joked about the tower and pretended we were excited to see it, and eventually those jokes morphed into genuine, almost giddy excitement which suddenly burst out of both of us when we finally turned a corner and it came into view. We had excellent fun taking photos of the Mister posing with the tower, marveling at how it really looks like it ought to topple over, and watched hundreds of other tourists do the same, before making our way over to the maze of souvenir stalls and energetically combing through them to find the perfect kitschy bottle openers to give as gifts.

Most of our trip we’d worked hard to research good food and eat like the locals did, but in Pisa we’d lost steam and, in search of sustenance, walked down one of the quaint old streets that were lined with the sort of over-priced restaurants that are geared towards foreigners. We’d managed to avoid those sorts of places during most of our travels, but now that we were seeking one out, we were turned away again and again as it turned out they were all booked up for the night. Frustrated and starving, we wandered further and further into the residential neighborhoods and eventually happened upon a little restaurant on a quiet street corner that had a table open on its tiny patio. We’d had so many amazing meals in Italy, but this one stands apart in my memory like no other. There was so many moments when I closed my eyes and relished the way the osso buco melted in my mouth, the creaminess of the polenta, and the utter perfection of the risotto, flavors and textures that are all still so clear in my memory. We remarked to our server that it was without a doubt the best meal we’d had in Italy, and she’d smiled and said, “Of course, this is food for Italians.”

Later, stuffed, exhausted, and happy we meandered along the Arno river, basking in the golden glow of the setting sun and blissful in the unexpected loveliness that was Pisa.

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Near the end of our stay in Tuscany, we hopped on a train to spend a day in nearby Florence, or Firenze, as they say locally. It was such a whirlwind of a day, but the beautiful Duomo looms heavily in my memory, with its towering dome peeking out at us from around every corner as we explored the city. Florence was a day of indulgence for us, beginning with a delicious lunch of truffled pasta and multiple stops at the colorful gelaterias that pepper the city, but my favorite memory was our discovery of the bright and airy espresso bars, where, for a single euro, you are almost instantly served an expertly made espresso with sugar and a tiny biscotti. A far cry from the cafe culture in Paris, in Italy there were hardly any tables to linger and people watch; rather one stands at the bar, downs the espresso in one or two sips, and then heads off on their merry way. To this day, as I’ve stood in many a long cafe line, desperate for caffeine, while those ahead of me placed their very specific drink orders, and I’ve longed for just such an espresso bar to open within walking distance of my office.

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After an amazing week in Rome, we hopped a train for the Tuscan countryside, where we spent the second week of our honeymoon relaxing in an old farmhouse. Opting to spend our time enjoying the surrounding fields and vineyards instead of renting a car and driving from town to town, we stocked up on groceries and made the most of our farm house kitchen. Every day we cooked our own meals and ate them in the shade of a row of cypress trees, occassionaly ducking over to the stone store house on the property where we had access to wine made from local grapes. Occasionally we took a bus or train to visit ancient nearby towns, but mostly we wandered around the property through meadows and fields, admiring the wildflowers, devouring book after book in the shade, and drowsily watching the afternoon sun set the surrounding pond and vineyards aglow with golden light.

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Every year, around our anniversary, I find myself daydreaming about the three dreamy, sun-filled weeks we spent in Italy for our honeymoon, and this year I thought it would be fun to share a few of my favorite photos from those days.

Four years ago, in early May, we spent seven days in Rome. The city was warm and breezy, and we found a darling little apartment in Trastevere using AirBnB. Charming and full of narrow, cobble-stoned streets, Trastevere was the perfect home-base for our stay, full of wonderful little restaurants and an easy walk into the city center. Every morning we’d make an espresso in our tiny apartment and then head out to take in the historic sites, admire all the Roman window gardens, and settle into one of the dozens of piazzas to people-watch for hours. A friend had recommended the fantastic terroir guide, Food Wine Rome, and though we hardly spoke any Italian, we quickly figured out how to order a full Italian meal much to the delight of the owners the tiny, local gems that we’d have never found without the book. At the insistence of other friends who’d lived in Rome, we picnicked on an island in the Tiber and just as we were about to eat more gelato than is probably sensible for just two people, we hopped a train to spend the next week in Tuscany.

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Growing up in Texas, I never thought much about California. I knew it had heat and deserts, oceans and hippies, traffic and urban sprawl, and I had all of those things already, while the things we didn’t have, like mountains and movie stars and earthquakes, didn’t interest me much. The east coast was what gripped my childhood imagination. I longed for dense cities, noise, snow, apple cider, seasons, and sweaters, and for the last seven years they’ve been mine all mine.

And yet, 18-months ago, we got the opportunity to spend a lot of time in California, and being the people we are, leapt at the chance to explore a new place in depth. We visited deserts and mountains, oceans and orange groves, vineyards and ancient forests. We biked across the foggy coast, visited old missions, kayaked with sea lions, ate ridiculous amounts of fish tacos and roasted artichokes, and listened to the waves crash against the coast again and again. I’m not sure when California crept into my heart, but slowly I fell for her, hard and unexpectedly.

Now our travels there have finally come to an end, and I’m sad and mournful for California in a way I’ve never been for a place. I miss the slower speed of life, the dry heat of the desert, and the cool damp of the coast. I long to drive through eucalyptus groves with the windows down and to smell the strawberries in the air as we pass through the Salinas Valley. I want to buy giant bags of oranges at roadside stands and I want half the radio stations to be in Spanish. I miss the mountains and the colors and the Pacific ocean and the palm trees. Mostly I just want to go back, not for short vacations, but for long stretches of time, maybe forever, and I can’t figure out how to do it. Someday, maybe I will, but for now, here’s a travelogue of our time on the west coast, my love letter to you, California.